Gypsy Jewel

by Patricia McAllister

  Of those who watched the gypsy dancer, the harlequin was no less intrigued, and yet excited for a different reason than the others. His gaze marked April from where he stood on the edge of the square, peering around a tall marble statue. He could feel the blood pounding and surging through his frame, giving him an intense, but welcomed headache. For here, after four years, he had surely found a way to ingratiate himself into the services of Count Ivanov again.

  The girl was perfection incarnate. Pavel had seen many beauties, but this one was special. He had choked in shock when he had first seen her dash laughing through the square.

  Though he disliked women himself, the dwarf nevertheless saw his chance in this one. This gypsy wench was the mirror-image of someone the count had lost long ago, his only love, and the woman who haunted him still.

  Of course, the girl would likely demand a high price for her services. But so would Pavel, once Count Ivanov had caught a glimpse of this rarefied creature. The trick would be to lure the girl to Ivanov’s residence outside of Moscow as soon as possible. Would she be willing? Pavel assumed so, but if not, there were ways to persuade gypsies, and he would see to it that she was taken to Count Ivanov, even if it was in chains.

  A thin smile twisted his lips as the crowd erupted into frantic cheers and encores for the breathless beauty now taking her bows. As if in echo, the overcast sky suddenly broke, and hard, fast flakes of snow started falling. As the crowd scattered for shelter with a shout of dismay, the gypsy hurried to sweep up her shoes and her booty.

  April’s tambourine, set aside on the edge of the square, was overflowing with coins and cheap jewelry. She swept it up and grabbed Damien by the arm. Together they melted into the crowd.

  As they ran laughing in the snow flurry, neither were aware of the small diamond-paned figure trailing them down the streets and alleys strewn with trash.

  They thought themselves separate from the world, caught up in life and laughter and love. But soon, Pavel thought a little maliciously, soon he would prove to them both that nothing in life is free — especially love.

  APRIL WAS CHANGING CLOTHES inside the wagon when she heard voices coming from the nearby stable. Damien had left to feed the horses again.

  She peeled off the new dress, quickly hung it up to dry, and donned warm, brown woolen skirts and a shawl over her blouse. She went to the wagon flap and looked out, just in time to see a pair of figures disappearing into the stables. One, she saw, was Damien. But behind him tagged a colorfully costumed child. She wondered if the lad was looking for work. Usually gaje children avoided gypsies, after being told horror stories by their parents. Curious as to the reason for the child’s presence, she decided to join them in the stables.

  Before April arrived, however, Damien had already exchanged introductions with the dwarf who had approached him as he was headed to the stalls. Pavel was trying to entice him into meeting his employer, a boyar aristocrat who lived on the outskirts of the city.

  “There’s money to be made, and plenty of it,” the odd little man insisted, He removed his mask to reveal a misshapen, twisted face with an overbite and pointed yellow teeth that reminded Damien of his wolfhounds back at Mistgrove.

  Pavel regaled Damien with stories of riches and renown to be had if his music was favored by an aristocrat.

  “I am Romany,” Damien replied scornfully. “No boyar would ever invite me out of the gutter.”

  His disdain was believable enough, for Pavel hesitated. Then he cajoled, “But you are an exceptional musician, and your sister, a wonderful dancer.”

  “Sister?” Damien laughed. “Your mistake, little man. That is my wife, April. Is she not a prize?”

  “Indeed,” Pavel murmured, thinking that though their relationship might complicate things, Count Ivanov need not know. Soon enough the girl would forget this gypsy oaf, once she had been showered with jewels and fine gifts. Women were easily bought, which accounted for much of Pavel’s disgust for them. Even Damien, offered a good horse in trade, would probably not hesitate to turn over his pretty bride to Pavel.

  Damien stopped to tend to a pair of steeds, one of which looked far too fine for a gypsy to own. The black snuffled and blew at his master’s arm, while eyeing the little dwarf suspiciously. Pavel knew the animal had picked up the scent of his fear, for a man of his size was wise to avoid such unpredictable beasts.

  Wondering at the cause for Prince Adar’s nervousness, Damien gave the stallion his ration of oats and then tended to the mare. All the while Pavel continued to wheedle him, until in sudden exasperation Damien asked, “And what’s in this for you?”

  At the condescending tone, Pavel bristled. But he must maintain a friendly air until the gypsy agreed to his scheme. With a curt nod he said, “A fair question, I’ll grant. But you have surely heard of those who are given the arduous task of finding rare talent to amuse the courts? That is my mission, though I confess it is a difficult one. Once I was a court jester myself, and as you see I still have my costumes, but with my waning health I have decided to pursue a more dignified course.”

  “So now you ask others to play the fools, eh?”

  Pavel could barely keep his full-sized temper in check. This gypsy lout was crude, unmannered, and certainly unworthy of the compliments being paid him. True, he was a talented violinist, but those were a dozen a ruble even in Moscow. It was the girl he needed to recapture Ivanov’s favors, but first he needed to pacify her husband.

  Seeing a different persuasion was called for, Pavel made a gesture toward the horses Damien was now grooming, noting slyly, “A fine brace of beasts, Damien. How interesting they should come into your possession.”

  “Why is that?” Damien instantly anticipated what the dwarf was driving at, and made his voice appropriately hostile. Now he understood the Romany resentment toward gaje, who assumed anything of worth or value in the gypsy realm must be stolen.

  “It seems to me I heard rumor of a similar steed missing from one of the local nobles.” Pavel indicated Prince Adar. “Surely black stallions are rare enough anywhere, but —” He shook his head, as if unwilling to say more. The untold threat was clear. Whether the horse was stolen or not was irrelevant, but Pavel was prepared to call attention to the obviously well-bred horse.

  Damien wondered what the dwarf was up to. The fact that he was trying so hard to get them to meet Ivanov made his curiosity grow. If it was true the dwarf only needed a commission, then he would have an excellent cover and an excuse with which to infiltrate the czarist realm. If not, then they were being lured into a trap of some sort. But what motive did Pavel have for wishing to waylay a pair of gypsies?

  Pavel continued, “Of course, I will expect a small cut for my services in introducing you to the count. On your own, it is unlikely you would merit the attentions of nobility. But with my connections, you could find yourself a rich man in a very short time.”

  Ah, money. The eternal lure and curse of man. Perhaps the dwarf was being honest. He certainly stood to profit by such a deal. But something nagged at Damien, a sense of something not quite right.

  Just then April appeared. She walked up to them quietly, her bare feet muffled in the scattered straw. Though plainly garbed now, she was no less lovely. Her face registered curiosity as she asked, “Who is your little friend, Damien?”

  It was a good thing she had spoken in Romany, not Russian. For when Pavel turned around, April saw the mistake she had made, and colored in embarrassment. She had supposed the harlequin to be a child. Instead, a repulsive little man stared at her from beneath thick hairy brows, the ridge of his large deformed skull protruding and giving him a strangely sinister look.

  “April, this is Pavel.” Damien introduced them in Russian as if she had never made the faux pas. “He has come to offer us work here in Moscow. Pavel, this is my wife.”

  “Charmed.” The dwarf gave a short, comical bow. “May I say that you danced divinely in the square today.”

  April was unused to courtly complime
nts. She looked helplessly at her husband after murmuring a brief thank you.

  “She is shy? But what a Romany rose.” Pavel gushed, privately thinking that the girl was probably only an excellent actress. Gypsies were known to be a bold and clever lot. If he did not despise women so, he might admire her. “I was just remarking to your husband that your stallion is exceptionally fine. Where did you come by him?”

  Not seeing a trap in his query, April replied honestly. “Prince Adar was given to me by a gypsy king some years ago.”

  “Ah.” Damien saw the wicked gleam in Pavel’s eyes. It was clear he did not believe her.

  Damien said, “Pavel is trying to get us an audience in Moscow, April. We might be asked to entertain at court.”

  “Might?” The dwarf looked offended. “No question of that, my Romany friend. Your talent is unsurpassed. While I admit I cannot recall the last time gypsies entertained at court, I am sure an exception can be made.”

  April’s fine senses also picked up something wrong. Why was this stranger, this funny little man, trying so hard to win them over? She wondered if it was just his appearance which made her uneasy. But as a gypsy, she was used to seeing the ill-favored. They had never bothered her before. Now, however, something caused her skin to crawl, and trusting her instincts, she looked pleadingly at Damien. I don’t want to be around this man. She tried to convey the silent message with her eyes. She moved closer to Damien so that his height gave her the illusion of safety.

  Seeing the dilemma April did not, and knowing Pavel was not bluffing about turning them over to authorities, Damien had no choice. “I think it would be a good idea. We could get rich quickly and perhaps earn a ticket to other European courts.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Pavel chuckled, knowing full well why Damien had caved in so quickly. “I assure you, my friend, you will not regret your decision. Why, I’ll buy your pretty wife a whole new dancing wardrobe, of the finest silks and satins. You’ll lack for nothing while you’re under my care.”

  “Can’t you just give us directions to Ivanov’s?” Damien asked. He didn’t like the idea of traveling with Pavel, whom he didn’t trust.

  “Nonsense. Without my introduction, Count Ivanov would never agree to see you. You’ll also have to practice your act and refine it. The court is easily bored these days. The distraction of war has upset the czar. When he is in residence, he always wishes to see something fresh and uplifting.”

  April couldn’t believe Damien was agreeing so readily to this mad idea. She wanted to cry out, to plead with him to say no, but something in his blue eyes stilled her.

  Something was terribly wrong. He was too easily guided by this odd, misshapen creature, who reminded her of an evilly grinning troll. Now was not the time to beg and wheedle her husband out of the deal. But the minute she had Damien to herself again, she would.

  Instinct told April that to trust Pavel would bring disaster down around their ears. She had never known those instincts to be wrong yet. Stifling her protests for now, she allowed the two men to discuss their plan, all the while wondering how she could convince Damien to refuse the dwarf’s suspiciously generous offer.

  Chapter Eleven

  THE ANCESTRAL HOME OF Count Vasili Ivanov was built on the outskirts of Moscow, less than an hour’s ride from the city proper. As soon as he left the gypsy couple at the stables, promising to return shortly, Pavel hopped in his sleigh and set off for Ivanov’s residence. As he sliced through the bitter night, the dwarf quivered with anticipation, but he also recognized a thin trickle of fear in the pit of his belly. And he had good reason to be wary.

  Once Ivanov’s right-hand man, Pavel Chevensky had been cast off five years ago after a servant plotting to secure his own favors with the count had betrayed the dwarf’s dishonest handling of the estate accounts. Enraged, the volatile Ivanov had grabbed Pavel by his neck and flung him out into the streets, vowing to skewer him and serve him to his guests if ever Pavel should return to his home. Cowed, but not beaten, Pavel took up traveling, weaseling his way into the confidences of other nobles, until his own dwindling funds finally gave way to this latest madcap scheme.

  Pavel would take great pleasure in giving April over to the count. Women found the dwarf repulsive and had always regarded him as a freak. His own mother, whomever she was, had taken one look at the son she had had and left him in a heap of trash some thirty years ago. If not for the soft-heartedness of an old peasant man, Pavel would have died. He had more in common with April than he would ever know, but he hated her simply because of her sex.

  Pavel knew when Count Ivanov caught a glimpse of the gypsy wench, he would become a rich man. It would give him great satisfaction to see her taken in hand by Ivanov, knowing of the aristocrat’s bizarre obsession with his love from long ago.

  Pavel chuckled softly to himself, rubbing his mittened hands together. Perhaps he would dare to ask the count for a small favor himself. He would like to show April that he was as much a man as her husband, and when he was through with her, he would scar her as he did all the other women he used. Pavel made sure they never forgot they had been ridden by a little man with a huge ego.

  He tingled with anticipation. He could hardly wait to exact his vengeance on womankind again. Each time he made one of them suffer, he could almost feel himself growing an inch taller.

  WHEN THEY LEFT THE paved roads and the comforting glow of the city street lamps, Pavel signaled his driver to light the lanterns he had brought. Perhaps he was foolish to set off so impulsively into a storm, but he could not wait to worm his way back into Ivanov’s good graces. Of course, there was a small chance the count would refuse to see him, but knowing Ivanov, he would be curious as to why Pavel had returned so desperately in the midst of a blizzard. Surely he would be assured a seat on the count’s right again, and given all the rewards and boons such an honored position brought.

  Soon Samarin House, as it was colloquially dubbed by the locals, rose before them in a blaze of lights and medieval peaked towers across the vast blanket of Moscow’s north hills. Pavel banged on the window to urge the driver to go faster, quivering with excitement as the sleigh raced across the snow banks. He opened the window and cried, “Straight through the gates. Stop for nothing this night.”

  Paid to obey, the driver ignored the pair of sentries who hollered in outrage at the sleigh that whipped past their posts. They made it to the front entrance before the guards could get on their snowshoes, and Pavel disembarked with loftiness worthy of boyar, throwing back his shoulders and raising his knobby chin as if it were his own home he deigned to enter.

  Even at this late hour it was not unusual to find the count awake. Seeing that was the case when a disgruntled butler answered the door, Pavel moved swiftly past the minion to confront the man who was stalking down the hall directly at him.

  “You!” Ivanov raised a threatening fist, his burgundy silk smoking-jacket flying open as he came. Pavel simply stood there, unruffled, briskly dusting the snow off his fur hat and mitts as he handed them to the lackey.

  “I hope I have not disturbed you, my lord,” Pavel said mildly as if Ivanov had just greeted him like a long-lost relative. “Though the hour is admittedly late, I have news which warrants your attention.”

  Still the silver-tongued court creature, Pavel’s nonchalance caused the count to hesitate.

  Ivanov looked barely older than when Pavel had seen him last; in fact, he noted that the slight ashen tinge to the count’s sable hair was an attractive touch, and his figure was no less lean and admirable than the dwarf recalled.

  “It must be news indeed for you to risk your life and limb in seeking me out again,” Ivanov said at last, weighing his old acquaintance with dark eyes. There was a veiled threat in his tone that squeezed Pavel’s innards, though the smaller man did not react.

  As if he had never been tossed out on his ear, Pavel said cheerily, “It appears the storm may render me stranded for a time, Vasili. Perhaps we could share a warm bra
ndy by the fire?”

  Pursing his lips, Ivanov considered. He was a shrewd man who knew Pavel would not have taken such a gamble unless the dwarf had something truly remarkable to tell. And, of course, Ivanov understood there would be money involved, else he would not have come at all. He knew his old friend only too well. Pavel had been his valet, secretary, and occasionally his lover in their younger days. It behooved him to hear what the little wretch had to say.

  Nodding curtly, Ivanov spun on his heel and returned to the study where he had been relaxing before a roaring fire. Knowing Pavel would follow like a devoted puppy, he did not turn around, but gestured sharply to the worn velvet stool where the dwarf had perched for years like an eager pet. He had not seen fit to remove it since Pavel’s dishonor. It might be said he was prone to moments of sentimentality.

  Quick emotion welled up in Pavel at the sight of his old fireplace roost. His initial bravado had taken a sharp turn now that he stepped back into time, into the very room of his undoing so long ago. Maintaining an outward calm, Pavel peeled off his coat for the hovering butler and waited until Ivanov curtly dismissed the servant.

  Left alone in the chamber, the two men studied each other warily as if uncertain of the next move. Finally Ivanov broke the ice, saying briskly, “Well, what is it? What brings you crawling back this time?”

  Pavel flushed, but held his temper in check. “I would recover your friendship, my lord. It has been an empty spot in my life for too long.”

  “Oh? And how do you propose to do that?” Ivanov’s scorn cut deep. He was not a man who easily forgave or forgot.

  “Hear me out, Vasili. I understand you have little reason to trust me, but in my exile, I have changed considerably.”